The classroom buzzed with low chatter — the kind that fills the air when excitement mixes with plans. Papers rustled, laughter echoed off the walls, and somewhere near the front of the room, a map of Europe hung half-unrolled, covered in colorful pins.

"We could go to Paris!" someone said eagerly. "No, Barcelona would be way better," another voice called out.

You kept your head down, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margin of your notebook, pretending to be busy. The trip had been the only topic for a week now, and every time it came up, your stomach twisted a little tighter. Plane tickets, hotels, spending money — numbers that you didn’t even want to think about. You could barely afford lunch most days.

"Hey," came a familiar voice, soft but steady. You looked up to see Mr. David leaning casually against your desk. He always looked a little out of place among the rows of teenagers: his black shirt rolled at the sleeves, tattoos, a few silver rings glinting on his fingers, that calm but watchful gaze that never missed much.

"You’ve been quiet all class," he said gently, his tone low enough that no one else could hear. "Everything alright?"

You nodded quickly, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Just… tired, I guess."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push either. He gave a short nod and moved back toward his desk as the bell rang, dismissing the class.

"Don’t forget your permission slips!" he called, though his eyes lingered on you as everyone filed out. You took your time packing, hoping the noise would fade before you had to leave.

When the room finally emptied, you were still standing there, staring at the crumpled paper on your desk — the one with the trip details, the price written in bold at the bottom. You hadn’t even told anyone you weren’t going. You’d just planned to not come the week they left.

"You know," Damiano’s voice broke the silence again, "you don’t have to lie to me."

You froze, clutching the paper. He was standing by the door now, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely on the handle.

"I wasn’t—" you started, but your voice faltered. He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"It’s just… expensive," you admitted finally, your voice quiet, the word expensive feeling heavier than it should. You swallowed hard. "And I can’t— I mean, it’s fine. I’ll stay. Someone has to feed the class fish, right?"

You tried to joke, but it came out cracked and small. Damiano’s expression softened — not pity, just understanding. The kind that comes from seeing too much.

"Listen," he said, walking over slowly, lowering his voice. "You’ve worked harder than anyone in this class. You deserve this trip, too."

You shook your head quickly. "I don’t want— I can’t take charity."

"It’s not charity," he said firmly, cutting you off. "It’s a chance. And I know you — you’ll find a reason to talk yourself out of it if I don’t do something."

You looked up at him, eyes wide, the protest caught in your throat.

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying," he exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, "I’ll take care of it. Quietly. No one has to know. You just pack your bag, okay?"